Seven Nights Of Sin: Seven Sensuous Stories by Bestselling Historical Romance Authors

Seven Nights Of Sin: Seven Sensuous Stories by Bestselling Historical Romance Authors

Victoria Vane & Sabrina York & Lynne Connolly & Eliza Lloyd & Suzi Love & Maggi Andersen & Hildie McQueen



DEDICATION

This book is dedicated to Lola with gracious appreciation for not eating this manuscript during her recent rampage.





CHAPTER ONE


IT WAS A DISMAL DAY FOR A HOMECOMING, but as there would be no one at home to greet him, at least it was fitting.

Dev Hargrove slumped lower in the hard seat of his rented coach and stared out at the passing fields, sheeted in rain as they were. It pattered against the window and thundered on the roof. He was very glad to be inside.

Even so, the damp made his leg ache.

He’d been recuperating at Wickham’s estate in Cornwall when the message—informing him that his every living relative had died—had come. That, and the summons.

The irony was rich. In oh so many ways. First, his uncle and his cousins had been safely ensconced in the bosom of their homeland, gleefully tupping wenches, racing curricles and drinking their livers green. While Dev, on the other hand, had been on the continent, dodging cannonballs, drinking cold swill from a tin cup and diving into trenches to avoid pesky rifle shots. Yet they had died.

The other irony carried much more pain. Years of it. A lifetime.

He’d been born to the second son of a lord, a man whose family not only disliked Dev’s mother—as she came from the lower classes—they had repudiated her as well. And with her, her son. After Dev’s father had died, his uncle had gone out of his way to divest them of any inheritance, leaving them little more than beggars.

It was only through the grace of his mother’s people that Dev had been able to attend Eton and Cambridge. And even that had been a nightmare.

Because his cousins had been there to torment him, urging the other young men to do the same.

And young British lords, cattle that they were, did.

It hadn’t been until he procured the coin to buy his commission that he’d really found his place in the world. Earned the respect he craved.

He’d always been a nobody before then. The poor boy. A mongrel.

And now, here he was, in a dowdy carriage, heading along mud-slogged lanes toward London. To claim a title.

He should be nervous, stepping into a world he barely knew, but he wasn’t.

One had to care to be nervous, and he did not.

He didn’t care about much of anything.

The coach slowed and Dev peered out the window to see why. He had to squint to make out the form on the side of the road.

Poor bastard.

Wrapped in a blanket and hunched against the incessant battering of the rain, the figure moved slowly, stepping cautiously. Even as he watched, the coach wheel hit a puddle, sending a tremendous wash of water through the air, spattering the traveler.

The shrouded head whipped around and, as the coach passed, their gazes clashed. Dev had the brief impression of delicate features, large eyes and a rounded mouth, opened in shock.

Good God, it was a woman. Out here. In the middle of nowhere. In the pouring rain.

Without thought, he knocked on the roof and the coach pulled to a stop.

He could not, in good conscience, leave her here, in a storm, not after his coach had utterly drenched her. He opened the door. Surely invitation enough, but he had to poke his head out and wave to the wayfarer before she took his meaning.

“Get in,” he called. “We will give you a ride.”

Still, she hesitated, looking to the left, then to the right down the road…as though some other coach might miraculously appear. He understood her reserve. A woman should always be cautious in such situations, but he was a war hero. Surely she could trust him?

Although, in her defense, he didn’t look much like a war hero with his scraggly beard and rumpled clothing.

“It’s all right,” he said. “I promise to deliver you safely to your destination.”

He had no idea why a puzzled look crossed her face, but his words seemed to do the trick and she accepted his invitation, bracing herself on the bar and climbing the steps. He did not help her—she didn’t need it, and an outstretched hand might be perceived as a threat to a frightened woman—but he did shift positions, allowing her the forward-facing seat as a gentleman did.

At least, he was fairly certain he’d heard something of the like.

As she closed the door behind her and sat, Dev fished a couple blankets from beneath his seat. “You’re wet,” he said with a gentle smile.

Her response slayed him. She glanced up at him and for the first time he got a good look at her. And bloody hell. She was gorgeous. A delicate heart-shaped face framed by unruly damp curls, enormous violet eyes with a thick fringe of lashes, arching dark brows and—good glory—dimples.

Dimples. They exploded on her cheek as she grinned. It was an engaging, mischievous grin and it made something deep within his belly shift.

He’d promised to keep her safe, but all he wanted to do was pounce upon her.

“Well, it is raining,” she said, accepting the blankets from him.

Her voice was soft, musical, a whimsical lilt. It made shivers walk along his spine. Oh, she was a lovely girl, this sodden wayfarer. But a mystery.

He’d always enjoyed a mystery.

“And why, pray tell, were you walking along the side of the road in a downpour?”